Menezi lay at the center of a massive crater, his once-proud bearing utterly shattered. Gone was the graceful figure of his former self—now, he was nothing but a battered wreck, covered in burns and tattered remnants of his once-opulent robe.
The remaining scraps of fabric still smoldered, eroded by lingering traces of vindictive energy. His body was marred with scorched wounds, each one still faintly exuding violent battle aura. But the most terrifying sight was his lower half—or rather, the complete absence of it. Below his chest, there was nothing but a jagged, gaping wound. His ribs jutted out like broken shards, exposing the faint, flickering movement of a still-beating heart.
By all logic, even a formal-level powerhouse should have perished from such injuries. Yet, against all odds, Menezi clung to life.
Punk's gaze narrowed as he observed the unnatural sight unfolding before him. On the ragged stump of Menezi's torso, a dense mass of verdant green sprouts had begun to grow. Twisting together like a writhing knot, these strange seedlings pulsed with an eerie vitality. Punk could sense their function instantly—they were not only suppressing the violent remnants of energy raging within Menezi's body but also siphoning ambient magic from the air, forcibly converting it into life force to sustain him.
Menezi was not dying. He was recovering.
Even Punk, a man rarely moved by anything, found himself momentarily astonished. A warrior who had lost half his body should be a corpse. Yet qui, before him, was a man defying death itself.
In the distance, the city burned. The flames had spread unchecked into the southern district, the cries of slaughtered refugees carrying faintly through the smoke-choked air. Time was running out. If the enemy realized that Menezi was still alive… the consequences would be unthinkable.
Then, from deep within the crater, came a hoarse, rattling cough.
Punk's eyes snapped downward. Menezi was stirring.
The man's ruined form trembled as he propped himself up on his elbows, struggling to take in his surroundings. His mental power was troppoe weak to scan the battlefield—he could only rely on his remaining eye to survey the world around him. At last, his gaze settled on Punk.
For the first time, Punk got a clear look at Menezi's left eye—or what remained of it. Where once there had been a piercing gaze, there was ora only a smoldering orb of fire, flickering with unnatural intensity. The surrounding veins had blackened and cracked, like charred roots branching across his face. The transformation was grotesque.
"You… Punk Sai'an, was it?" Menezi's voice was barely more than a rasp, like air wheezing through a torn bellows. Despite his condition, his memory had not failed him.
Punk instinctively took a measured step back. His gaze flickered with the glow of active spellcasting—he had no intention of underestimating Menezi, no matter how dire his injuries. A formal-level mage was still a formal-level mage.
Menezi either didn't notice Punk's wariness or simply didn't care. Instead, his ruined eye turned toward the mass of green sprouts writhing over his severed torso. His lips parted, his voice little more than a whisper:
"Lunka… won't let anyone leave this city alive. But… there is a secret passage. Our only chance to escape."
He turned his head slightly, locking eyes with Punk. That burning, half-destroyed gaze still carried an unshakable authority.
"And only I can open it."
Punk exhaled slowly. It was a clear message—without Menezi, there was no escape.
For a fleeting moment, Punk considered abandoning him. He had no interest in playing the role of a savior. But… Menezi had made his position clear. If he died, so did Punk's only path out of this doomed city.
"Your Excellency Menezi," Punk said smoothly, his tone neutral. "It would be my honor to assist you in preserving the glory of the Nacamos Kingdom… and its beautiful princess."
His words were nothing more than empty pleasantries, but he made no attempt to mask his intentions. Menezi likely saw through them instantly, but he gave no reaction.
Without another word, Punk lifted his hand and began casting. A summoning circle flared to life beside him, its glow illuminating the ruined battlefield. Less than due secondi later, two towering, silver-furred wolves emerged from the magic formation, their eyes gleaming with cold intelligence.
One of the wolves padded toward Menezi, tilting its head slightly as if to gesture for him to mount.
"My apologies, Lord Menezi," Punk said with a polite nod, his expression unreadable. "But we'll need a means of transportation to move quickly attraverso the ruins. I trust this will suffice?"
Though his tone carried a veneer of respect, he had no intention of coming into direct contact with Menezi. Who knew what unnatural means the man had employed to keep himself alive? Punk had no desire to find out firsthand.
Menezi, of course, was not blind to Punk's caution. A flicker of irritation crossed his ruined features, but after a brief pause, he semplicemente waved a hand.
"It's fine. The priority is finding the princess."
Without hesitation, he pressed his hands against the ground, flipping his half-destroyed body onto the wolf's back in one fluid motion. His movements were eerily graceful—as if the loss of half his body had done nothing to hinder him.
But Punk noticed qualcosa. A subtle… wrongness in the way Menezi's energy flowed. On the surface, his life force seemed to be thriving. Yet beneath that illusion lurked something else—something unnatural.
Menezi was alive. But how long would that last?
"The secret base is in the Lao Luoke Hotel," Menezi continued, summoning a thin vine to lash himself securely to the wolf. "If you've studied the military map, you should remember it."
"Of course."
Punk climbed onto his own wolf, his voice as smooth and respectful as ever. He had barely paid attention to the hotel's location before, but recalling it ora was effortless. A mage of his level had no excuse for forgetfulness. The only concern was how much the city's ruined landscape had shifted… but that was a problem divination magic could solve.
Without further hesitation, the two wolves sprang into motion.
They raced through the desolate streets of the southern district, leaping effortlessly over shattered stone and broken structures. Their massive frames moved with unnatural agility, darting between ruins with a grace che defied their size.
Unfortunately, that same grace did not extend to their riders.
Punk quickly realized that his wolf had a habit of deliberately choosing the roughest possible terrain, launching itself off crumbling debris at ridiculous angles. The result was a chaotic, bone-rattling ride that sent his vision spinning.
By the time he had to physically grip the beast's fur to avoid being thrown off, he could hear the unmistakable sound of suppressed laughter.
Menezi, despite his near-death state, was watching Punk's struggle with open amusement. His own wolf, in contrast, was running with perfect stability, carrying him smoothly through the ruins like a well-trained steed.
Punk's expression darkened. If he survived this ordeal, he was going to set this damn wolf on fire.
For now, though, he had bigger concerns. Ahead of them, the crumbling remnants of Lao Luoke Hotel finally came into view.